The Mistakes We Deny: A Yorkshire Detective Mystery (DI Daniel Ward Crime Thrillers Book 3) by Meg Jolly

Author:Meg Jolly [Jolly, Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eldarkin Publishing
Published: 2021-08-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Detective Sergeant Emma Nowak had already learned there were few things she wouldn’t encounter on the job. From oddities to aberrations, and the unusual to the downright bonkers, DS Nowak had discovered many colourful sides of humanity already in her time on the force. But this one was a new one.

‘Hello Mrs Hodgson, please can you explain why you made and burned an effigy of Robert Craven?’ she murmured to herself as she drove to Skipton to meet the very woman. Nope, no matter how she phrased it, she couldn’t find a way to say it that didn’t sound, frankly, crazy. She sighed. ‘Never a dull day.’

It had instantly piqued her interest, seeing the picture of a very self-righteous looking woman standing before a burning pyre, her arms crossed, glaring into the camera, on one of Eliza Pullman’s articles. Such a length to go to—but why?

She was genuinely curious on this one. Making and burning an effigy of someone took anger, and a lot of it. At least she didn’t have a nutter with a shotgun to deal with, like DC Patterson. Just possibly a pyromaniac. Ordinarily, she might have been unnerved, but with that comparison, frankly, she felt like she’d got the better deal of the two of them. It had been a good call to leg it out of the office before Ward could land her with the shit job. He’d seen straight through her. His text had called her out—and told her she’d dumped the DC in it. Nowak chuckled darkly. No regrets.

Nowak pulled into the new build estate—now three years old—jolting uncomfortably as she left the tarmac of the main road onto the rough surface. She drove around the raised grates, and eyed the lack of streetlights. It was in a poor state, alright—a stark contrast to the seemly houses and landscaped gardens of the estate, which stood in proud relief.

‘Fair play,’ Nowak muttered. If she’d lived there, she’d be pissed off buying a house without a tarmacked road and streetlights three years down the line too.

She pulled up by the house listed as Frances Hodgson’s. Immediately, she noticed that all the curtains and blinds were drawn. A single car sat on the double driveway, backed right up to a garage door. Nowak eased out and went to the porch—locked. She rang the bell and knocked, her fist rapping sharply on the glass, the sound carrying across the street.

Inside the porch, as she peered in, she could see post littering the tiled floor. Nowak chewed the inside of her cheek. Are they away?

She glanced up and down the road. There were a few cars dotted about—she supposed, it was the middle of the working week too, which wouldn’t help. People wouldn’t be sat at home waiting for her to call.

Across the street, a door slammed.

Nowak turned. A woman with a baby in her arms and loaded down with bags, chivvied a toddler towards the car on the driveway, looking drawn and harassed.

‘No, Archie, we’re going to the shop.

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